


Shotgun Kiss

by ferretsoda



Category: Pundit & Broadcast Journalist RPF (US), Real News RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Frotting, M/M, Marijuana, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Revenge Sex, shotgun kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:14:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27572920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferretsoda/pseuds/ferretsoda
Summary: "Mr. Le-mohn,” he greeted casually. Don barely noticed the annoying nickname, he was still reeling at what he just bore witness to.“I... I didn’t know you smoked,” he said at last. “Marijuana, I mean.” Tucker lifted his head up, and let it rest on the back of the couch, smiling to himself.“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
Relationships: Tucker Carlson/Don Lemon
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	Shotgun Kiss

Don Lemon was embarrassed. No, scratch that-- he was disturbed.

"Names can be so hard to pronounce, sometimes. Even the names of people who have been on the scene for years."

He sat, vodka-soda in hand, on the aged leather sofa he'd come to call a haven. It was a cozy respite, in the whirlwind world he was living in. At the end of a long week, he could be found here, Barkley or Boomer beside him, watching TV.

But tonight was a special case.

"Say it with me-- _'Kamala'_..."

A sudden premonition flashed through his mind, a portend of what was to come. He quickly set the glass down, and, as if on cue, his palms began to sweat. He shifted in his seat.

Tucker Carlson, headliner and poster boy for Fox News, flashed on the screen. He looked smug, per usual. But there was a hint of something else.

"'Say it with me'," he mocked, voice warbling with sheer _mirth_. "Hey, racist Fox News guy! It's _Kamala_."

The whispered "Racist, sexist!" lines went unnoticed by Don, who simply glared at the man on TV.

"Barkley, get off," he ordered, not breaking eye contact. Reluctantly, his faithful hound hopped off the sofa, disappearing into the gloomy darkness, perhaps to join Boomer. Don stretched his legs out, then simultaneously grabbed the remote and his drink.

As he took a sip, he rewound the video and began playing the same spot over and over: Tucker laughing and mocking him.

His watch read 1:20 AM when he finally, accidentally glanced at it. Immediately, he was overtaken by guilt and scrubbed his face with his hands, trying to rid himself of this old, familiar demon. It had no name yet. But with each passing day, it seeped a little more into his bones.

As he stumbled into the bathroom and flicked a switch, he squinted at the harsh light. He turned the sink faucet on full blast and more or less dunked his head in. His mind, still ignited from Tucker’s mockery, drifted back in time.

January 2017.

_"The most egregious example of dumbness goes to Mr. Don Lemon at CNN, a bit drunk and awkward on New Year's Eve," Tucker read aloud, from a tweet sent in by a viewer. "Huh! Let's go to the tape."_

_"Can we please not give him shots, by the way?" Don's co-host had asked the body piercer._

Don lifted his head out of the water, turning the faucet off. He was drowning in his old memories, feeling the hazy veil lift. Subconsciously, he lifted a hand and brushed knuckles against his bare ear. The holes had healed, but he still remembered the dulled pain of the piercing itself. Beneath that was a crisper feeling that came soon after.

_"I'm a bad person today," he admitted on live national television. "I'm not-- I'm not selfish... I'm not gonna be as self-centered."_

The clip faded back to an extremely-pleased Tucker Carlson. The son of a bitch was grinning from ear to ear. Don knew, from years of studying newscasting, speech, and plain old body language, that Tucker had been laughing. A lot.

_"That's right, Don Lemon got drunk on tequila and got his ears pierced live on CNN!" he giggled, like he couldn't believe he actually just said that._

Don slowly raised his bloodshot eyes up to the mirror-

_"It's hard not to kinda like Don Lemon," said Tucker, in a casual fashion. "I'll admit it, I like Don Lemon."_

\--and quickly looked back down. He didn't need to look back up, he could already tell he was blushing.

_"He's so... florid!"_

He could even feel the tips of his ears burning.

He ran into the welcoming arms of darkness. In the safety of his bed, he curled up into a ball, a pillow pulled around his head, as though to muffle any unwelcomed thoughts. Just imagining Tucker’s face caused the man to shake his head back and forth, mouth contorted in disgust at himself. He had better things to think about.

This year. The president’s cognitive test.

“ _What does it mean if you don’t know an elephant from a rhino?”_

“ _...an elephant?”_

_It was a simple mistake. And it was such a tiny mistake, but of COURSE Tucker would ferret it out and milk it for a news story._

“ _Well, you may not be a physician, but I think you know what it means. It means low acuity,” Tucker declared after the clip had finished._

“ _And that’s not a surprise in the case of Don Le-mohn—a perfectly cheerful person!” Tucker reassured his viewers. Then he tilted his head knowingly. “But maybe the slowest person ever to appear on cable news.”_

 _F_ _rom then on, the segment spiraled into_ _a parade_ _of Don’s gaffes._

“ _..._ _He declared, with total assuredness, that the frozen dessert the rest of us call ‘sorbet’? Is actually pronounced ‘sorbette’. He was adamant about that-- he’s a news anchor.”_

 _T_ _ucker couldn’t seem to help but gush over Don’s lack of embarrassment. “How can you not love a man like that?”_ _he pondered out loud._

_The segment continued by bringing on Howie Carr, an east coast radio host. Howie took a crack at telling Don he should try out some field sobriety tests. Tucker, for whatever reason, leapt to Don's defense, claiming he'd pass._

_"There’s something really endearing...about the fact that he’s NEVER embarrassed!”_ _Tucker exclaimed._ _“Don Le-mohn, NOTHING embarrasses him!_ _Isn’t there something kind of appealing about that?”_

Don buried his face in his hands.

He wished, deep down, that he hadn’t started watching Tucker all those years ago. If he’d just put the blinders on and stayed in his own lane, none of this would have happened. Because that was the crux of this whole dilemma, the fact that he started reading the messages hidden beneath.

It had all started one evening. He was alone, bored, not quite ready to make dinner. So he’d flicked on the TV and switched to Fox. His bosses had been pressuring all the anchors to scour the rival networks for anything that could be exploited, make _their_ anchors look bad. Don was a natural at it. So when he saw “Tucker Carlson Tonight” pop up on the screen and this boyish man start talking about the Democrats, a smug grin slowly blossomed on his face. Easy pickings.

But then, out of nowhere, Tucker began talking about _him_. And with such familiarity, Don realized to his horror, that this wasn’t the first time. _Why haven’t I heard about this?!_ Don thought worriedly. His first instinct was to phone his lawyer. As Tucker continued to dissect the man’s words, he also dissected his character. Showing Fox’s audiences that Don Lemon was just a hack, a phony. Someone to be laughed at, not taken seriously.

And then the _oddest_ thing happened. Tucker just laughed and said something about it being an “endearing quality”. Don did the biggest double-take of his life, nearly dropping the remote. He stared hard at the screen, even when it switched to commercials. His mind was bursting with activity, flooded with questions and hypotheses. Endearing... _endearing?_ He turned off the TV and just sat there, forehead wrinkled in deep thought.

The word burned all other questions away, leaving just one that still remained unanswered.

Was Tucker... flirting with him?

Was Tucker Carlson honest-to-god _flirting_ with him via national television?

Don wasn’t an idiot. He suspected Tucker wasn’t, either. But what in god’s name was he thinking?! He was **married** , for one thing! They both were! And his goddamn behavior... He’d seen how Tucker changed whenever he mentioned him. In fact, it was embarrassingly obvious, the way he’d visibly light up and come alive. The puppy-dog tendencies that made some viewers swoon. Don even once thought he saw a glint of attraction in Tucker’s eyes. There was no fucking way nobody else in the nation didn't pick up on this.

Slowly, he unfurled himself from his fetal position. His breathing became more steady, his muscles relaxing. _Feel like you're floating in the_ ocean, he thought. He allowed himself a private moment of an imagined scene. _Just for tonight._

 _Tucker, surrounded by a group of_ _faceless_ _people. But he's not looking at them, he's looking_ _straight_ _at Don. Because this time, there is no television screen separating them._

_"I like Don Lemon," he declares, taking a step through the crowd, who are now dissipating like water droplets. His hands are in his pockets, and he squints and wrinkles his nose just a little. "He's so... florid."_

_It all feels very... schoolboyish. And Tucker definitely fits that mold;_ _h_ _e looks like he never grew out of it. Don swallows hard, struggling to come up with a retort. It was always so easy to do from behind a desk, in the safety of a studio._ _Tucker is right up in his face, waiting for an answer and_ _smiling mischievously. He gives a coy tilt of the head, just like he did every night. There's a tug of an undercurrent of emotion that he can’t (or won’t) put a name to. It’s frightening... but disturbingly fascinating._

Don Lemon was now at a party. He’s still not sure when he got there. It felt like he’d _always_ been there. It was somewhere inbetween “casual get-together” and “white tie and tails”, so he ditched the tie for some nice Italian loafers. The hostess was a friend of his, a retired journalist with many accolades. It was no surprise, then, that Don ran into many of his colleagues as he made his way through the crowded, yet charming New England home.

The party was now several drinks in, and the conversations had risen several decibels. Some genius had decided to crank up the stereo, too. “Take the Long Way Home” bopped along. Don winced at the piercing clarinet solo. He held the copper mug to his flushed face as he leaned against a table in the corner of the drawing room. It was stuffy and the heat was turned on too high for his liking. Or maybe he’d had one too many Moscow mules.

Several minutes rolled by as he just stood and watched the people before him. Occasionally someone would throw their head back to laugh like a braying mule. Don smirked a little. Peoplewatching was amusing, especially when you were a little tipsy. But he felt tired of it all. In fact, he realized as he stood up straight, he felt _woozy_. Looking around, he saw all the couches and chairs were _occupado_. No chance, then, of stealing a quick power nap. That wasn’t rude, right? Sleeping in the middle of a party? His inhibitions were lowered enough that “no” was the correct answer.

Fortunately, he spied his friend, who was entertaining a wide circle of people around her. He flagged her down as best he could and explained his predicament. Being the obliging hostess, she fussed over him.

“Oh no! Oh, Don, here, come follow me,” she exclaimed. She led him down a less-occupied hallway to a bookcase. Cleverly hidden behind it was a secret door.

“You can go sit in my private study for a while. I’ve got a very comfortable sofa there you can rest on. Now, go down this hallway, hang a right, and it’s the first door on your left.”

Don cautiously stepped through into a dimly-lit passageway. It was much less decorated. This must’ve been the servants’ wing, he concluded. He leaned on the plastered walls for support as he made his way to the aforementioned door. He turned the knob, and stepped inside.

It was a very cozy study. The kind that made Don's chest feel warm. Bookshelves everywhere, a few paintings here and there, a small vase of autumnal flowers. A radiator in the corner occasionally rattled. There was also a haze in the air. An incredibly dense, blueish haze. At first, Don thought it was his eyes going, but no—there was definitely smoke hanging everywhere. Suddenly, a cough drew his attention downward. There was a man sitting on a floral-patterned sofa with his back to the door. He wore a tweed jacket and had neatly-brushed brown hair.

He turned around.

Oh God. It was Tucker Carlson.

“Shut the door.”

_No_... it couldn’t have been-- Tucker Carlson? _The_ Tucker Carlson?

Don was stricken with paralytic shock for a few moments. He slowly backed up against the door, and leaned against it so it shut as gently as possible. Forget wanting to sleep, every sense was now on full alert. Last thing he wanted to was be hotboxed and drunk in a room with Tucker.

Tucker made no efforts to engage him. Don secretly thanked whatever deity was watching over him and walked closer to the sofa. Then he noticed there were no other chairs in the room. Don secretly blasphemed.

After a fierce internal debate, he swallowed his pride, and, without a word, plopped himself into the empty seat. He drained his Moscow mule, knowing he’d need it, considering who he was sitting next to-- only the most popular news anchor in television history. Don, to this day, still couldn’t understand why. As he set the mug on the floor, he carelessly glanced up at Tucker.

Tucker licked the rolling paper, securely wrapping it over itself before he flicked open his lighter. He held the cigarette carefully as he inhaled, holding it in for a few moments. As he exhaled, he made a soft sound of approval, smoke ribbons curling up from his mouth.

It slowly dawned on Don that he wasn’t smelling tobacco.

Tucker’s eyes glided over to his, boring into him as a languid smile spread across his face. For a moment, all Don could do was stare back in horrified fascination-- there was no way in hell any of this was real. No fucking way was Tucker Carlson, Fox journalist, conservative, devoted husband and father, smoking high-grade weed at his friend’s party, in actual, real life.

His eyes were huge. Don did a short double-take; he didn't know human eyes could look like that. Thick, black pupils surrounded by hypnotic blue rings, further surrounded by carnation pink rings. The Fox newscaster blinked and turned away, looking down at the hand-rolled joint.

“Mr. Le-mohn,” he greeted casually. Don barely noticed the annoying nickname, he was still reeling at what he just bore witness to.

“I... I didn’t know you smoked,” he said at last. “Marijuana, I mean.” Tucker lifted his head up, and let it rest on the back of the couch, smiling to himself.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” He took another hit, this time doing a trick with his tongue that culminated in blowing a perfect smoke ring into Don’s face. It impacted gently, causing the man to cough and wave the smoke away.

This amused Tucker into giving one of his trademark guttural laughs.

“But if you guys at CNN did actual reporting and stopped calling everybody racists, you might!” he chuckled. “Maybe your ratings would go up, too!” Don bristled at that, shoulders tightening.

“You’re right, Tucker. Maybe I **should** do some reporting.”

The brunette man stopped laughing and froze, the smile never leaving his face. He turned towards Don, his demeanor changing in an instant.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“You’ve been doing this from the start, y’know that?”

Tucker said nothing.

“Dragging up old clips, calling me out for speaking my mind, giving me that stupid-ass nickname, embarrassing me in front of your audience night after-”

“I’m warning you, Lemon.” Tucker’s voice dropped an octave, scraping graveled tones.

Don blinked. “...Warning me about what?”

Tucker shifted in his seat towards Don, head tilting in his usual fashion. “You tell anyone about this and I’ll involve you. _Personally._ ”

The air in the room changed sharply, metamorphosing from something playful and teasing into downright unpredictable. But then... as soon as he said “personally”, that old emotion from his dreams reignited. The two stared at each other in silence. Tucker’s threat still hung above them. Yet, in light of what he had learned, Don saw it not as a threat, but as a challenge. His chest swelled with masculine pride.

“You don’t have the balls to,” he blurted.

Suddenly a fist balled into his shirt.

Before he knew what was happening, he’d been yanked forward into Tucker’s (surprisingly strong) arms. While Don was still dazed, Tucker looped a hand around his neck, leaning in to take a drag. As he pulled back, Don was suddenly aware of his proximity, and craned his neck back. But Tucker’s hand caught it, holding it steadily. The CNN journalist froze.

“I warned you,” Tucker said quickly, before pressing his mouth against Don’s. At first, Don didn’t react-- he couldn’t, his brain had shut down. Fried from the shock that the most conservative man he knew was kissing him. That is, until he felt the most disturbing sensation of marijuana smoke drifting from Tucker’s mouth into his. The man was literally blowing smoke into him. That jolted his body into life again, causing him to make muffled sounds of protest as he squirmed around. So Tucker wrapped his arms around Don, even hooked a leg around the man’s waist and dragged him down with him. Now he had Lemon’s arms pinned against his chest, grabbing Tucker’s jacket in a desperate attempt to escape.

After several moments, the pair broke apart to gasp down lungfuls of air. Tucker pushed himself up, blinking rapidly for a few seconds. Then he looked over at Don. grinning slyly.

Don sat back, trembling like a schoolgirl. He was horrified; Tucker was completely unhinged. He’d gone off the deep end. Don grasped at his throat, coughing in an attempt to drive the smoke out of his windpipe.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” snarled Lemon, trying to keep his distance. His hands were ready to deflect any oncoming grabs.

Tucker just loosened his tie.

“Nothing. And it’s going to stay that way. Right, Don?” His eyes glinted dangerously. Don was seized with fear. Not only for his reputation and career, but for what his mind and body were thinking. His heart fluttered in his chest like an anxious canary in a wire cage. His own _heart_ was betraying him. As Tucker leaned in again, he swallowed hard, but remained stone-faced. He felt the other man’s thin, soft lips against his own quivering pair. At first, it was chaste and innocent, delicate. After a moment, though, Tucker pressed harder, giving an encouraging moan, trying to coax him. Don couldn’t help but react in kind, he really couldn’t. Beneath the musky odor of marijuana, he could faintly detect Carlson’s aftershave-- subtle, woody, pleasing. Ironic, given the situation. He also detected Carlson’s hand snaking up the back of his jacket. It jolted him back into the present, which made Tucker hum with amusement.

“Wondered where you’d gone to,” he murmured after he broke the kiss. “Back into your little scam artist bubble?”

“Sc... scam artist?” parroted Don after a few seconds. Anger sprung forth like a salivating hound, begging to be unleashed. “Now you listen-” Suddenly he felt Tucker’s hand clamp on his jaw like a vice.

“Let’s get one thing clear, Lemon,” Tucker began. “You’re all scam artists these days. Journalism is dead, and you are its pallbearers. All of you. For years, you’ve done everything you could to destroy the integrity of it. You’ve threatened, cheated, covered up, even downright lied to get the American people to listen to you. The sad thing is, I can’t even tell if you actually believe any of this, or if you’re so shattered that you can’t even notice it. Don’t you feel anything? Has your conscience _totally_ died? _Who are you?_ ”

Even while stoned, Tucker could still deliver an impressive monologue, Don noted with wonder.

“I’m still the same me I’ve always been-” he began slowly.

“Bullshit.”

He flinched at Tucker’s volume. “That is 100% bullshit and you know it. Don’t even insult me like that, Don.” He let go of the man’s jaw roughly, glowering at him. “You know why your ratings are plummeting? You know why nobody rational or sane watches you? Because they’re watching _me_. And trust me, I’m grateful. I’m so grateful to know that I’m not the only sane person left in America. You, the media, everyone on the extreme left, you’ve all driven them away. It’s like the battered housewife that’s finally broken free of her abuser. They’re tired of fighting. They’re almost ready to give in to your ridiculous demands, like ‘re-education’ camps and reparations.”

Tucker now loomed over Don like the great wave off Kanagawa, as the other news anchor sunk into the couch. Tucker’s face was steeped in shadow, but one could still make out his eyes, terrifying and beautiful, glittering in the dark.

“I’m a peaceful man... but do you have any idea how _angry_ that makes me?” Suddenly his hands were all over Don, tearing off his jacket and ripping his shirt open. Buttons scattered everywhere. Lemon yelped, tried to cover himself up with an arm, but it was wrenched away. Tucker leaned in close, forcing his knee onto Don’s stomach and putting his weight on it, drawing a cry from him.

“If I have to, I’ll break every single one of you.”

He grabbed the blunt, which had been set aside on a nearby ashtray, took one final hit, and pressed his mouth to Don’s. But this time he was not gentle. Like a pair of billows, he blew the smoke as hard as he could, keeping the CNN journalist pinned down with his weight. Don gave a muffled yell, and as he felt the smoke force itself into his mouth, he tried to cough but to no avail. Tucker had his hands pinned above his head. His eyes watered from the bitter sting, and the rapidly-decreasing oxygen supply. Tucker tilted his head, tongue lashing out to immediately begin dominating Don’s. He ran a hand over the clipped, short hair, fingernails grazing his sensitive scalp.

Minutes passed until finally, _finally_ Tucker broke the kiss (if it could still be called that). He sat up, chest heaving, saliva running down his chin, and looked down to survey his handiwork: Don lay there, completely dazed and semi-conscious. His shirt and jacket had been torn back, limbs splayed like some sort of anatomical study. His lips, once the color of a blushing rose, were bruised and swollen. His eyes were red and strained, either from emotion or the contact high kicking in.

“P-please, Tucker,” he mumbled pitifully.

“‘You’re too far gone’.”

As Tucker said those words, Don slowly realized he was quoting him from a recent news article. He was referencing Don’s “cutting out” of Trump supporters from his life. He felt himself choking up with emotion. No, no, _no_ , this wasn’t fair. How could he do these things and then say that? He was a good person. He was himself. He was Don Lemon, the man that Tucker-- that he--

“I thought you liked me!” he cried out, and broke down into sobs. He couldn’t hide it anymore-- Tucker had done it. His feelings for him were too much to shoulder alone. He'd ripped them out of him. In a moment of sobriety, the Fox journalist paused, pulled out a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at Don’s face with it.

“I did,” he gently admitted. “I liked you very much.”

Don pressed his face into the soft material as he wept. Tucker watched patiently, his thumb stroking the other man's cheek. It felt nice to just stay like that. A squinted eye looked up at him, as Don reached up with a trembling hand, to play with Tucker's hair. He admired the way his own skin seemed to match the color. A smile that reminded Don of a cozy fireplace was his reward. Tucker then glided a hand over Don’s soft, amber brown chest. He wasn’t in shape, either, he noted with a bit of relief. His fingers brushed against a nipple, causing Don to clench his jaw and flinch. He hadn’t realized his eyes were closed until he opened them again, only to see Carlson’s mouth hovering near his chest.

“It’s hard _not_ to like you, Don Le-mohn,” he said with a wink, and clamped his mouth on the unsuspecting flesh. Don threw his head back, whining one second, growling the next, as Tucker sucked, bit, and licked. He seemed to be charting a course southwards, but his hands beat him to their destination. As soon as he felt the firm pressure on his groin, he jolted hard. Tucker pulled back, hand pressed to his mouth.

“Hit my teeth,” he growled with annoyance.

“Sss-so-sorry,” came the unsteady reply.

Hmph. He supposed that would be as good an apology as he'd get from Don. Tucker positioned himself between his legs, undid his belt, and tugged his trousers down. Lemon weakly lifted his head up, trying to see what he was planning.

His jaw dropped.

Tucker had both their cocks pressed together, wrapped in that lovely, strong hand. His other hand held him up as he leaned forward, giving Don the perfect view. Deep brown lashes fluttered occasionally as he stroked a particular spot. Tucker, being such a conservative, traditional man, had only ever been with one woman his whole life. It was noble. But right now it was making Don’s heart surge with excitement. He was the only other person in the world to see him like this. He would take this to his fucking _grave_.  
  
Tucker’s face was flushed, wise eyes hooded with primal intent, that beautifully curved mouth parted in such a subtle, yet handsome way. That _was_ Tucker. A private, beautiful person. And Don was the only man who would ever get to see him that way. The realization made him rise up and wrap a hand around his rival’s, catching him off-guard.

“Tucker,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the man’s dewy forehead, who flinched at the unexpected tenderness. He started jerking them both off, slowly at first. He studied the Fox anchor’s face for any subtle changes, and adjusted accordingly. Tucker was also a quick study, Don noted as he stifled a groan. Precum slicked their hands to a perfect, tight, sticky mess. As the men increased their pace, boundaries began to blur. Tucker, at one point, buried his face into Don’s neck, keening as Don rubbed a particular spot on the underside of his cock. When he lifted his head back up, Don nearly came from the sight. Tucker was close enough to see the control slipping from his face. Those eyes, those entrancing eyes, were on him. The man that everyone else watched was watching him. Lemon suddenly felt drunk, dizzy, and aroused all at the same time. He caught Tucker's lips with his own, hand pressing to his lower back. For a brief moment, the playing field was leveled as they savored one another.

Don broke away first, gasping, “I want you in me.” He didn’t care how desperate he sounded anymore.

But Tucker just smiled and shook his sweaty head, biting his lip as their hands sped up. “I don’t th-think so,” he replied. He seemed to be pulling away from Don.

“You can bareback me, please, Tucker!” he cried, face flushing in embarrassment. “Fuck me up, please.”

Emotions and ecstasy were riding high, coasting, edging. Don felt himself practically melt into the sofa as he concentrated hard on making them both feel good. The combination of Tucker’s erotic gasps and swears, their hands, the weed, the vodka, all came to a glorious head. He felt ecstasy blossom in his nerves as he came, thick, white streams of cum landing on his stomach and navel. He tossed his head back into the cushions, spine craning, eyes screwed shut. He couldn’t remember what he cried out, because seconds after he did, he felt Tucker’s cock plunge into his mouth. Half of him was caught by surprise, half of him was unbelievably turned on.

“How’s that for fucking you up?” Tucker whispered, grinning in triumph. He sat on Don’s chest, one hand clasping the arm of the couch, the other cradling Don’s head as his hips moved. Don’s eyes rolled back, jaw slack, moaning in time with his rival's pace.

“Ffffuck,” Tucker groaned approvingly, biting his lip even harder.

Don held the man’s clothed thighs tightly, wishing desperately he hadn’t come so soon. This was too good to be true. The man seemed to be pulling Don into himself. He could feel himself being absorbed into Tucker. He beckoned his very soul--long cast aside--into his own.

He could barely hear Tucker cry out his wife’s name over the blood pounding in his ears. Then he felt a gushing warmth shoot into the back of his throat. He lay for a few moments before he opened his eyes. There above him was Tucker, brow furrowed in concentration and ecstasy, flushed to his ears, convulsing as he gasped and sighed. He thought he saw a tear roll down his cheek.

When he came to, Don Lemon slowly sat up. He saw Tucker Carlson retying his necktie and fixing his hair, using a computer monitor's faint reflection for a mirror. Don was not unfamiliar to this situation. But it had been a long time since he’d felt his throat tighten at the sight. Trying to save face, he pulled his shirt closed, and buttoned up his own jacket, though the remaining buttons popped apart a moment later. He wiped a hand across his mouth, erasing any evidence of what had just happened.

Tucker, sensing his awakening, turned and smiled, but said nothing.

“Look, Tucker, uh...” Don began, but had to pause as he felt himself choke up. Tucker walked over to him, and kneeled down to his level.

Don Lemon stared into the vast blackness as his Uber drove down the highway, sickly orange lights flying by. “Monday, Monday” droned out of the Lincoln’s radio.

He felt hollow. His only thought, like a video on playback, was seeing Tucker’s face, lit by a radiant smile, and hearing the last thing he ever said to him:  
  


“ _One down.”_

**Author's Note:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)ᕤ Can't cuck the Tuck.


End file.
